Unrequited
by Sara Winters
Summary: A look between the lines at the complicated relationship between Dumbledore and Voldemort. Before they were enemies, they were teacher and student - and maybe a great deal more.
1. Curiosity

_August 1938_

The moment he looked into the dark brown eyes, Albus Dumbledore knew he was headed for trouble. No, not trouble. There was a feeling he couldn't place. It was in a smile, a word, a small gesture. Something about this child was affecting him in a way that he hadn't expected and couldn't quantify. Young Tom Riddle worried him. Yes, it was in the way he seemed drawn to dark mischief more so than other boys his age—from the beginnings of his solitary life, that was to be expected. There was also potential there. Beyond the dark eyes lay a brilliant mind that could be capable of a great deal. How this potential could be honed offered a wealth of possibilities.

It was foolish to think as much, would be even more foolish to act on this feeling, but Albus could never resist the challenges that presented themselves with each incoming group of students. There were friendships created, bonds formed, and always the one or two who would stand out as deserving of a closer look. More, if they were willing. He took it as a personal compliment that so many of them were willing to blossom under his guidance.

With this one, he would have to be careful. There were other things to consider, but Albus felt drawn to the boy excitedly going on about how he could make things happen. _Oh, the things he could make happen if he would allow himself_, Albus thought. As he took in the way the boy's eyes lit up when he discussed being able to learn magic, he suspected this relationship—whatever it would turn out to be—would change everything.

* * *

_You're a fool_, the older wizard told himself a few months later. Tom was nothing if not charismatic. It was mere weeks before the professors at the school—and, indeed, a number of the students in his year and several higher—felt the magnetic draw of young Riddle getting his bearings in his new kingdom. That he was as poised as a little prince learning the ways of court was barely discernable in the air surrounding him. Students seemed to part around him as he stalked the halls of the castle, and a small number had even begun collecting behind him during his strolls and at free periods.

They could hardly be called friendships, though Albus may have been the only one who noticed. Tom rarely directed a genuine smile at anyone or paid them any attention unless they were of use to him or special in their own way. The Slytherin children of the oldest Pureblood families were soon allied with Tom in some fashion—whether the older students were offering him tutoring for his classes or attempting to teach him spells he would not master for years.

Throughout those first weeks, the Transfiguration professor watched the young wizard learn to nod and flatter at all the right times, until he had everyone in his orbit wrapped around his wand as easily as if he'd charmed them with a spell. All but the one person who'd been most fascinated by him from the first. Now, all Albus saw was a manipulator who could put several people in his own past to shame. For such a young man to be emotionally distant from every person who reached out to him was not only sad, but familiar. Familiar in a way that brought an instant ache each time Dumbledore thought of it. An ache that reminded him of the folly of underestimating the curious and persuasive. And which told him he had to act to save this boy from himself—while there was still time.

That was the reason, just before the first Christmas break, Tom Riddle, Jr. sat in a chair in front of Dumbledore's desk; he barely resembled the quiet, easily-cowed boy Albus had met months before. Now, Tom seemed as if he were waiting for something, biding his time. Why, Albus could not be sure. From what he'd discerned of the boy's thoughts, he was reluctant to even ask.

"Why did you need to see me?"

Dumbledore refrained from expressing his surprise at the boldly asked question. He sat behind his desk and studied Tom for several moments, flitting through the boy's thoughts as Tom stared back. Finding nothing strange, he answered. "I merely wished to see how you were getting along with the other students." Albus smiled. "As I said the day we met, I want you to do well here. A part of that is making friends with the other students."

In a move so small it was barely perceptible, Riddle's eyes narrowed. "I have enough friends," he said shortly.

_None_, Tom thought. _And why do I need them?_

Dumbledore smiled wider. "I hope you continue to get along with the students at Hogwarts. A new environment can be difficult to adapt to."

"I think I've done that well." He relaxed in the chair and Dumbledore heard him tell himself to smile during his interrogation. Tom's face immediately softened and his lips curved into a small smile. "I like my professors."

"They are all fond of you as well," Dumbledore responded. "Now that you've finished your first term, do you have any questions or concerns?"

It seemed this was the opening Tom had been waiting for. As soon as the question was asked, his thoughts began whirring over a number of subjects ranging from the properties of dragon's blood to stories he'd heard about the two Unforgivable Curses. Finally, Tom settled on one subject and focused his gaze on the Transfiguration professor as he asked the most important of his questions.

"Have you found out anything about my father?"

The question was whispered and the boy's voice firm. The words came almost as if in follow-up to an unspoken order.

"I'm afraid not," Dumbledore answered. "I do admit to a certain curiosity when you asked me about him several months ago. To my knowledge, no one by that name ever attended Hogwarts."

"Does that mean he wasn't a wizard at all?"

For the first time since they'd met, there was uncertainty in that small voice, and a small amount of fear. Of not being accepted by the other children because of his lineage or lack thereof? His thoughts were so clouded at the moment, Albus could not tell.

"No, that is not what it means," Dumbledore responded. "If your father was a wizard, he may have been educated elsewhere. A number of people choose to educate their children at home. It is also possible one or both of your parents were Muggles." As Tom's face fell, Albus asked, "Why the sudden interest in your heritage?" It was not sudden, and they both knew it, but it was not a subject the child had wished to discuss with any detail before.

"I just…it's nothing. I was curious," Tom said, but his thoughts spoke differently. He could not accept the idea that his mother could have been a witch—capable of saving herself, but somehow not doing so. Even with a son to live for. It was a lot for a child his age to take on himself, the idea that his mother didn't love him enough to live for him.

Nor did he wish to believe he didn't have at least one Pureblood parent. Tom had been listening to the Slytherin House Tales of Greatness—the infamy and grandeur that came from belonging to their exclusive Pureblood club. Albus knew he'd already lied to his fellow students about his heritage and only awaited confirmation for what he thought was a certainty—his bloodline was as pure as the rest. He had come to believe his acceptance at Hogwarts and the Wizarding world at large depended on it.

Dumbledore wished suddenly that he could disabuse the child of this notion and bring him some comfort, if there was any to be had. He would have to look through the school's records. When Tom was born, there had to have been some indication he would eventually be accepted at Hogwarts. Though, whether or not either of his parents were Pureblood, Albus couldn't live with himself if he let the child believe he was not as worthy of his education as the rest of his house.

"Tom, there is nothing…inferior about being Muggle-born or half-blood," Albus began. Tom started to fidget in his seat. "As a matter of fact, some of the more prominent members of the Ministry of—"

"Isn't the Headmaster from a Pureblood family?" Tom asked.

Albus folded his hands together and placed them in the center of his desk blotter. He leaned forward. "Yes."

"Is it true that most of the professors here, the Prefects and the Head Boy and Girl for the last several years have all been Pureblood?"

The tone of the question made Albus uncomfortable, but he attempted to answer in a calm tone. "I cannot be sure of that, but it is possible. Quite a number of students at Hogwarts are Pureblood."

"Has there ever been a time when only Pureblood students were accepted?"

_Ah_, Albus thought. _His housemates really have been telling him a great deal._ "It was once suggested by a former professor at the school."

"Slytherin," Tom supplied.

Albus nodded. "Salazar Slytherin felt that only students of the purest bloodlines would benefit from a concentrated magical education, but that has never been proven true and has never been the policy at Hogwarts. Those who are capable of doing the work are accepted here, without question."

"Even those who can't afford it, who aren't good enough to—"

"There is no person of magical birth who is not good enough to attend this school," Dumbledore said, cutting him off. "I don't know who you've been listening to, but I caution you against believing the prejudices of a select few. I assure you, Tom, whatever your heritage, very few people will judge you by it. They will learn to respect you for your intelligence and ability, not for which family you were born into." Albus sat back in his chair and sighed. It would not do to lose his temper, however much the subject irritated him.

"There is nothing wrong with being proud of one's family, but living up to those expectations can be both a privilege and a burden. While you may have been told that your family's name and reputation is everything, it is my personal belief that you can make your name synonymous with anything you wish. You have no one to prove your worth to but yourself."

Tom stared back at his Transfiguration professor, disbelief pervading his thoughts, but Albus felt comforted by the number of doubts beginning to spring up about the stories he'd been told. He would have to spend more time with the child if he wanted to steer him away from the possible negative influences he'd shown himself susceptible to, even before beginning school. His own darkly inquisitive nature notwithstanding, Tom could do with some guidance. Especially with the more vocal Slytherin students seemingly taking him under their wings.

"May I leave now?" Tom asked, interrupting Dumbledore's thoughts.

Albus watched him for a moment; his expression was clear and his thoughts were merely on a project he wanted to complete before the new term began. The professor nodded and waved a hand absently to unlock his office door.

Just before Tom reached the door, Albus said, "If you ever need to talk, feel free to stop by. Any time." Then the boy walked out, not to return unless summoned again. Or so Dumbledore believed.


	2. Access

_April 1939_

It would be several months before Albus again spoke alone with the first year student. When he did, the tone of the boy's thoughts disturbed him more than they had before. Tom entered his office quietly, quickly closing the door behind himself. Albus was gazing through the window down to the courtyard. Students filled the grassy area with the relieved and relaxed air of flowers welcoming the late spring, turning their faces up and stretching their bodies out in the late afternoon sun. Albus had been surprised when Tom had approached him during lunch to ask for this meeting, but he accommodated the boy's request, if only because it would give him a clear view of the boy's thoughts.

_The heir of Slytherin_, the boy was thinking as he sat. Albus held his breath and probed deeper, sure he was picking up errant thoughts from someone passing in the hall. But Tom thought of his new discovery again—if it could be considered that—and smiled to himself as he got comfortable in the Transfiguration professor's guest chair. There was no doubt in Tom's mind that this was the familial connection he'd been searching for since learning of his abilities. It worried Dumbledore. How the boy could be so sure was anyone's guess, but Albus had no doubt older students were influencing him again. And it was up to his professor to permanently turn the conjecture into the stuff of harmless rumors.

"To what do I owe the pleasure?" Dumbledore asked, turning to face Tom. "I thought you had decided it was…what is the word? Awkward to be seen spending free time with a professor. Outside the confines of detention, of course."

Tom's small smile widened briefly. "It does seem strange to treat teachers as friends."

"Ah, but you have no problem spending quality time with Professor Slughorn," Dumbledore said, his bright blue eyes twinkling. He knew Tom was coming to dread the frequent invitations for dinner and various get-togethers with other students at Professor Slughorn's request, but the boy never failed to make an appearance and give the impression that he was enjoying every moment. Dumbledore was reluctantly coming to admire his tactfulness when it came to handling overly friendly professors. Even if tactfulness sometimes gave way to disingenuousness.

"He insists," Tom said. He rolled his eyes. Albus smiled then quickly erased the expression from his face. "You give me a choice."

"Yes," Dumbledore said after a moment. "You always have a choice with me." He folded his hands together in front of his robes. "And why did you choose to speak with me today?"

"You're an expert on the school's founders."

_Straight to it, then_, he thought. "I think expert might be overstating things a bit. I made it a point to get to know as much as I could about them in my years as a student. They were a fascinating group."

"Can you tell me about Salazar Slytherin?"

Dumbledore sat behind his desk and eyed the young wizard across from him, worry briefly puckering his forehead. "I can tell you little more than what is written in _Hogwarts: a History_. Are you familiar with the text?" Albus knew the answer before the boy nodded. He'd spent the past several weeks memorizing everything in the book about the founder of his house, and several other works containing stories about the wizard's life before founding the school.

"Beyond what is contained in that volume, little is known of Salazar, save for his passion for studying and mastering all forms of magic, including Dark Magic. He fathered two children, both of whom were educated at Hogwarts; one went on to teach here for a number of years. I seem to remember reading he was particularly gifted at Legilimency and other skills that require a great deal of dedication to master."

"Was he really a Parselmouth?"

Dumbledore smiled in spite of his trepidation. Tom had let his guard down in his excitement. He didn't seem nearly as adept at hiding his true motivation on this subject as he did when attempting to charm his other professors. "I believe that was another skill he was born with, yes."

"So, wizards can only be born with it? It isn't possible to learn?" Tom asked.

Albus nodded. "It is one of few skills in our world one must be born with. It is an unusual gift and, I believe, passed down through families."

"So, if one can talk to snakes, that means they're related to Slytherin?"

_And this is where the talk of the heir comes in_, Dumbledore thought. "Not necessarily," he said, inspiring a quick frown from the boy. "There have been several families over the years whose members had the ability—"

"All Pureblood," Tom interrupted.

Dumbledore nodded. "But it was not a skill present in every member. As there are so few Pureblood families left, and the records so spotty, it would be impossible to trace which may have descended from Slytherin or which members of those families may have held that ability generations back, if they are still in existence." He paused. "Do you believe that's where you obtained the ability? From a Pureblood relative?"

After hesitating a moment, Tom nodded.

"I never thought of it," Dumbledore said, "but I suppose you could be correct. It is a singularly unique gift and there has never been a Muggle-born witch or wizard who had it. Perhaps you have found a key that might help us determine who your parents were."

"I thought you said it couldn't be traced from the Pureblood families around now."

Albus smiled. He was quick. Merlin, it was like talking to himself at that age. "I can be wrong. Even about important things." At his words, Tom relaxed in the chair and gave the professor his second genuine smile of the day. "Was there anything else you wished to discuss?"

The boy hesitated again and Albus had to stop himself from reading the child's thoughts. It was bad enough that, in his boredom, he'd picked up the habit of listening to others when they were sleeping. At times he found he could hardly keep up with this child—whose thoughts were sometimes more complex than several of the professors who proposed to educate him. Albus wondered, not for the first time, what the child would be capable of if his mind was utilized to its full potential. The possibilities were exhilarating.

"Can you teach me?" The soft question came reluctantly and embarrassed the boy. Knowing how difficult it was for him to ask for anything, Dumbledore felt a brief sense of relief as Tom blushed voicing his request. Beneath the sometimes gruff emotional mask, there was still a child's vulnerability.

"What would you like to learn?"

"Anything," he said. "Everything. I know I'm doing well in my classes, but I want to learn so much more than what we do in class every day. The other students—"

"The others in your year are learning at a much slower pace," Dumbledore supplied. Yet another similarity between himself and the hungry mind before him. Tom and the adolescent Albus shared a boundless curiosity, uncanny abilities and a thirst for knowledge so strong it would keep him in the library at hours Madam Pince found inconvenient. It was no matter. Dumbledore had books in his office the young librarian wouldn't dare give a child Tom's age, no matter how curious—and he wasn't in the least bashful about opening up the child's mind to a wealth of knowledge. It would be a privilege. Provided he could trust the child to be responsible with the information.

"I suppose I could make time in my schedule to show you a few things," Albus said. "Would one hour a week be enough to stave off your boredom?"

A corner of Tom's mouth quirked up. "I haven't gotten too bored in the library yet. But I was thinking two hours," he added quickly. "To start with."

This time, Albus forced himself to not smile. He couldn't very well let the child believe he was doing something to please someone else. He might withdraw again.

"That can be arranged," Dumbledore said. "As long as you maintain your marks in every class, I don't mind showing you a few things your classmates aren't ready to handle."

Tom started to rise from his chair and sat back down quickly, poised on the edge of the seat. "Does this mean I might have access to every area of the library?"

"I believe something can be arranged…with limitations," Dumbledore said. Even Headmaster Dippet would draw the line at giving a twelve-year-old unfettered access to the Hogwarts Library Restricted Section. "Provided you keep up your end of the bargain, I will try to show you anything I can."

This seemed to satisfy Tom. Smiling, he bid the professor goodbye and joined the other children out in the sunshine. Albus sat back in his chair and contemplated what he could teach his new protégé. Endless possibilities. He smiled. But well worth the patience it had taken to be allowed access to them.


	3. Son and Heir

_October 1939_

"I've done it," Professor Slughorn said.

Tom smiled at him. If the Potions professor was about to tell him what he expected, he knew putting up with the extra attention in and out of class would finally feel worth it. Especially if the information led directly to the Chamber of Secrets. Not that he expected Slughorn to have found the entrance yet. But the man could be in possession of a clue he couldn't make sense of—that seemed to be the case with a number of people in the Wizarding world. All the potential to do something the world had never seen and rarely aiming to do more than charm their desk chairs and brew cough elixirs. It was maddening, the talent and brain power wasted regularly.

There was something to be said for ambition, or so his professors told him every time he turned in another perfect exam. If his aim was to finally get the respect he deserved as the heir to one of the school's founders, Tom felt it was long past time. And if Slughorn could provide something more than a silly anecdote about a student who'd sent him Quidditch tickets, his own life might prove worth more than as a baby-sitter for students who could very well learn the same level of potion making from their books alone.

Slughorn lifted a rolled parchment from his desk and flourished it in the air. "It took quite a bit of searching," he began. "I had a former student of mine who works in the Hall of Records on it for weeks. They have the most awful, unorganized mess down there," Slughorn said. He stroked his thick mustache lightly with one finger. "It's a wonder they can find anything. He was more than happy to slog through it, though, for me." He grinned. "And you, of course. When I explained why the information was so important to you, he dedicated himself to the task. Can you guess what he came up with?"

"I can only imagine what has you so excited," Tom said promptly, earning himself another grin from his professor.

"Cheeky," he responded. "He has found…your father." Slughorn held out the parchment and watched with some satisfaction as the student took it and unrolled it. "It took some doing, of course, but Tom Riddle, Sr. was traced to a small village in the southwest of England. The records being what they are, he could not track down your mother's family with any certainty. There is mention of your parent's marriage in a small paper early in the winter before you were born, but—" He paused, causing Tom to look up from the parchment containing his father's address.

Slughorn spoke again, a somber note creeping into his low voice. "At some point, your parents separated. There is no way of knowing if your father was ever aware of your existence. Due to the circumstances, I don't think it's possible for anyone at Hogwarts to contact him on your behalf. I'm sorry."

"Don't be sorry," Tom said. The cheeriness sounded false to his own ears, but Slughorn immediately responded to it along with the accompanying smile. "I thought that might be the case anyway. Did your former student find out what years he was here? Or where he went to school?"

"I…" Again, Slughorn hesitated. He sat behind his desk and his face settled into a deep frown. Before he spoke again, Tom knew he was merely going to confirm what Dumbledore had already told him. "Those are the circumstances I was referring to. As far as anyone can tell, he did not attend Hogwarts. There is no indication he was a wizard at all. Given your particular gifts, I do believe it's likely your mother was a witch, and a talented one if you've taken after her."

_Talented_, Tom thought. _But didn't care enough about her child to stay around, or do anything more than give me the name of a filthy Muggle who couldn't care less that I exist_. Tom put on another false smile, hoping to fight down his growing anger. "I hope I can make her proud."

"I'm sure you've already done that, son," Slughorn said. Another smile from Tom erased the pity in his eyes. He relaxed his shoulders and leaned back in his chair. "Was there anything else you needed to know?"

"You've gone above and beyond anything I could ask of you, sir," Tom responded. He smiled again and watched as the Potions professor seemed to relax further. "I'll be forever grateful," he said, lifting the parchment. "If you'll excuse me." He nodded and ducked out of the professor's office before he could be committed to another dinner with that simpering group of lackeys Slughorn referred to as his "special boys."

_That settles one part of the mystery_, Tom thought, slipping the parchment into his pocket. Now he merely had to find out if the last of Slytherin's line before him was a witch too cowardly to face raising a son without her husband.

* * *

"But that is not fair. It's a trick question!"

Dumbledore sighed and leaned back in his desk chair. Minerva McGonagall continued to pace in front of his desk, waving her exam paper in the air as she ranted over her grade.

"When you explained the intricacies of a teapot transfiguration, you spent half the period talking about the importance of changing the pattern before removing its internal organs."

"Yes, but—"

A shriek and quickly waving finger interrupted him. "So when I described why the tortoise had to be transformed in a certain order, you deducted a _full letter grade_. Why?" She frowned. A few wisps of her dark hair had escaped from the tight bun at her neck and she brushed at them with her free hand as she waited for a response.

Dumbledore took in his student's flaring nostrils and wide eyes and resisted the sudden urge to laugh. He highly doubted Minerva would see the humor in the situation—even if he told her she looked like a Norwegian Ridgeback in heat.

"Miss McGonagall, I merely asked you to describe the overall transfiguration," Dumbledore said calmly. "As with your homework assignments, you wrote far more than the question required and, I gather, lost sight of the original question somewhere in your four feet of parchment." Before she could interrupt, he added, "Everyone else completed their full exam within three feet, yours took ten. Sometimes, the simplest answer is the best. If you overcomplicate every matter you address, you may find you'll never reach the end of answering questions."

"That is ridiculous," she said after a pause. "Just because I know more about the subject than the question asked does not mean I shouldn't write it." She crossed her arms and her back stiffened. "As a matter of fact, it makes more sense to—"

"Professor Dumbledore?" There was knock on the office door—accompanied by a relieved sigh Dumbledore hoped the student in front of his desk hadn't heard—then Tom Riddle appeared in his doorway. He glanced at Minerva and Albus could see the corner of his mouth lift in a small smile before he forced it back down. "If this is a bad time, I can come back."

"Ah, no Tom, come in. I'm sorry, Miss McGonagall," he said, turning his gaze back to her. "Tom has an appointment. Perhaps we can discuss this later when you've had a chance to calm down. In the meantime, I suggest you think about what I've said."

"I still think you should reconsider giving us unlimited essay length. At the very least, with our practical exams." Without waiting for the professor's response, Minerva clenched her rolled up exam paper in one hand and stalked from the office. Tom had to jump out of her way to avoid getting run over.

No sooner had the door slammed behind her than Tom turned to the Transfiguration professor and they both burst into loud laughter. Tom's amusement was a sound so rare, Dumbledore nearly stopped himself from laughing to savor it. He sauntered over to the guest chair and fell into it, a lopsided smile glued to his face as his laughter died.

"I've never seen anyone wound as tight as that one," Tom said. "She's in third year, right?" Dumbledore nodded. "It's a wonder she hasn't driven all of her professors mad by now."

"I once heard Professor Binns say her questions would be the death of him if he wasn't already several decades in the grave," Dumbledore remarked, inspiring another short laugh from Tom. Albus watched him laugh for another few moments; he felt another smile growing on his face as their eyes met before he pushed it down and forced himself to focus on an object on his desk. "So, what brings you to see me on a Saturday? Don't tell me you've finished that wandless magic book already."

"No, though it is fascinating. I was wondering if you wouldn't mind telling me a story." Though Tom was careful not to do it, there was still the smallest hint of anxiousness in the smoothly delivered inquiry.

He was learning. Albus couldn't decide if he should admire the developing skills or be even more wary of the charmer who continued to hide many a complex thought behind his dark eyes. It was tiring, this persistent niggling paranoia where Tom was concerned. But he wasn't like other students and pretending otherwise would be pointless. Deep down, Albus knew it also had the potential to be dangerous, underestimating this child.

There was something about his constant need to charm that felt like more than just a deep-seated need to be liked. Especially from someone whose private thoughts dismissed those fawning admirers he collected so easily. There was a disconcerting air about the quiet twelve-year-old. Even when he smiled and put on his best charming act—it was still little more than an act. A good one and getting better every day, but an act nonetheless. It wasn't the false gestures or the well-placed flattery that bothered Albus, it was the need for the act in the first place. What need would someone have to constantly bear a mask for the entire world, and occasionally, for himself?

"Really?" Dumbledore asked. "I thought by now you might have grown tired of listening to an old man's ramblings." As was becoming customary, his response to the inquiry was light and just this side of casually disinterested. It was a game Albus was coming to like. It had become a ritual, this cat and mouse, back and forth. While other professors easily gave in at Tom's first smile, Albus always searched him for motive and meaning—and often thoroughly questioned the latter. More and more often, he came away with more questions than answers, an eventuality Albus found as uncomfortable as his own growing affection for the unusual child.

Tom flashed a smile. "Some stories are more interesting than others."

Albus said nothing. He surprised himself by not probing the child's mind for information, waiting for Tom to come right out and ask for what he wanted. After a few moments of silence, he finally did.

"What can you tell me about the Chamber of Secrets?"

"Strange, Tom," Dumbledore responded. "You've never struck me as the type to be interested in folklore."

"You've never struck me as the type to avoid a direct question," the boy said. "Unless you don't want students knowing the truth." He shrugged as Dumbledore shifted in his seat. "In that case, I could understand giving others the impression that it's just a story. We wouldn't want to scare the children." This last statement was followed by a small smile Albus knew was a mixture of teasing and baiting—both of which were tempting him to answer the question as asked. That was the real issue. Though Albus never fell for the subtle charms the child possessed, he could rarely resist the open teasing the boy sometimes took to when they were alone. It was one of the few moments when Tom was honest about what he wanted, even if he shielded that desire behind wry humor and a secretive smile.

"I'm afraid I can treat it as little more than a rumor, made more interesting by its connection to a school founder," Albus said finally. "I assure you, shielding _the children_ is the least of my concerns." He added his own small smile.

"Really?" Tom sounded incredulous. Genuinely, or so it seemed to his professor. "You never told me about the Chamber when I asked you about Slytherin last year."

"I'm caught, aren't I?" Their eyes met, Dumbledore's twinkling, Tom's serious. "I do not see the point in spreading a rumor that has no bearing on the school and does not benefit anyone in any way. In my opinion, all it does is sully the reputation of one of our founders." Dumbledore sat back in his desk and crossed his arms over his chest.

"Sully?" Tom asked. "From what I heard, it was for the protection of the school." He leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms in an imitation of Dumbledore's posture. "Perhaps you should tell me the story so I understand a bit better."

"You're persistent when you want something."

"You like that about me," Tom said softly. Their eyes met again and Albus shifted in his seat as Tom's eyes seemed to see straight through him.

"Fine," Dumbledore said after a minute. "Never let it be said that I don't live to assuage a child's curiosity." At his words, Tom relaxed in the chair and loosened his arms. "Where should I begin?" He shook his head as Tom began to speak. "I know, I know. At the natural beginning, the founding of Hogwarts."

Twenty minutes later, Tom was as anxious as Albus had ever seen him. Halfway through the story, he'd stood and begun pacing, worrying his lower lip between his teeth as Dumbledore described the division in the school that caused Salazar Slytherin to leave the other founders to run it without him.

"I still don't understand," he said. "Why did they give up looking for it?" He stopped pacing and faced Dumbledore, his forehead wrinkled in confusion. "If there really is something in the castle that can hurt students, why not track it down, try to understand how to control it?"

"You mean, how to stop it," Dumbledore said.

Tom waved a hand absently and nodded, lost in his own thoughts.

"The school has been searched many times, even by our own Headmaster Dippet. Even if the Chamber does exist, and that is highly doubtful, there are few creatures that would've lived from Slytherin's lifetime until now."

"But it is possible," Tom said. His eyes caught the professor's. This time, there were a myriad of jumbled emotions in them, not the least of which was a hungry curiosity about what type of monster might lay in wait to kill students the founder of his house had deemed unworthy of a magical education.

"There is a slight possibility," Dumbledore confirmed.

"Is it also possible only Slytherin's heir can control the monster _and_ find the Chamber? You have to admit, that would explain why a number of educated wizards and witches couldn't find it after centuries of searching." _How long will it take me? _Tom thought.

For a second, Albus forgot to breathe. His heart thudded in his chest and then he coughed, breaking the increasingly uncomfortable eye contact. "You've spent a great deal of time thinking about this."

"I…it's a fascinating story," Tom said slowly. "I suppose I am attracted to the more unusual tales of the Wizarding world."

"Yes, well…" Dumbledore looked up again to find Tom sitting in his guest chair, his face composed into an emotionless mask again. "Some things are best unexplored. I would hate to think of you wasting hours of your time attempting to find something that may not exist."

Tom smiled, the gesture as false as the words he was about to speak. "Time that would be better spent studying. You're right, of course. As always." He stood from the chair. "I'll get your book back to you as soon as I've finished it."

"No rush," Dumbledore said. Tom nodded just before slipping through the barely opened door and closing it behind him. Why his heart continued to pound he could only guess, but Albus knew he would never look into that child's eyes—or mind—again without getting a chill. There was a great deal more than idle curiosity and a child's imaginings of inheriting power at work. What was more—and further unsettling than any thought he'd had for a long while—Albus had no idea what, if anything, he could do about it.


	4. Damage Control

_November 1940_

Patience. A virtue or the tool of simpletons who did not know how to get their way in a timely manner? Depended on the situation. Tom knew his patience in searching the school for the Chamber of Secrets would be rewarded with the receipt of power his ancestor had granted him. He also knew his patience with Dumbledore's persistent questions and rambling stories only served to pull him into the professor's orbit more often, rather than give him the information he would need to reach that sacred place. It might be worth it, in the end.

Just as listening to Slughorn blather on for nearly two years had finally gotten him solid information about his father, much good as that had done him. It had been months, but Tom still didn't want to believe his father was really a pathetic Muggle living a life of leisure with his parents. His mother had surely suffered after Tom Riddle, Sr. had left her—what other reason would there be for her to abandon her son? More importantly, what reason did she have for cursing him with the name of another coward? So that he could carry on the family legacy of abandoning whatever pursuit had lost its luster over time? Unacceptable.

Tom frowned, crossed his arms and leaned his chair back, his eyes closed. It was maddening, this patience. He had to wait to confront the man whom he knew had allowed for his life in the orphanage, for no better reason than a Statute of Secrecy that prevented the school from letting the coward know what he'd done. It was idiotic, to be sure, but the patience required to wait until a suitable time gave him leisure to think of what he would do when finally able to confront Tom Riddle, Sr. Now, the question remained, would he be able to get away with it?

"Tom?"

_If I ignore her, maybe she'll go away_, he thought. He knew better, but he couldn't help hoping one day it might be true. If only for that one instance.

A few seconds passed before the girl said his name again. Tom opened his eyes. Walburga Black smiled down at him. As he sat up, a tentative smile tilted her lips at the corners. Tom glanced around the library briefly before returning his gaze to the girl who'd interrupted his thoughts.

"May I help you?"

Walburga smiled and ran a hand over her slick black hair in what should've been an inviting gesture. He supposed she was attractive by most people's standards, in spite of her grating personality. Over the years, Tom had found all of the Blacks to be interchangeable. They all possessed the same dark hair and wide eyes, pedigreed background and the natural snobbishness that accompanied their good lucks and family status. Best and most useful of all, they possessed intelligence and cunning—earning every member of the family a place in Slytherin.

This last was the only reason he allowed Walburga, her siblings and any of her extended family members to annoy him on a regular basis. It was baffling why they all seemed drawn to him. He knew the family and their connections might be useful one day, once he was far away from the confining hall of Hogwarts. If only he didn't have to suffer under the oppressive, insistent nature of the female family members' hormones. If it wasn't Walburga pinning him down for a study time, it was Lucretia inviting him to a Quidditch match or Cedrella wanting to sit next to him at dinner. As with Slughorn and Dumbledore, Tom felt sure the annoyance would one day be worth it.

Still smiling, Walburga moved to sit next to him, placed a hand over his on the table and began to whisper in his ear.

* * *

Tom frowned quickly, before forcing a quick smile onto his face. Walburga continued to flirt with him, oblivious to his disinterest. Reading her banal thoughts from several feet away, Dumbledore couldn't blame Tom for not being the least bit interested. She was boring and, though intelligent in her own right, didn't come close to competing with him on an intellectual level. Not that many could. Albus knew, without even having to ask, that Tom would never take more than a token interest in someone he felt had little to offer him, either in the way of favors or, at the very least, stimulation of some kind. Especially someone who could spark an interest in that sharp mind of his. This fourth year girl was nowhere close. Tom was too polite—or simply couldn't be bothered—to tell her as much.

It was amusing to watch her try to capture his attentions. Dumbledore found himself observing the pair for several minutes, almost hoping Tom would say what he was really thinking—though it might send the Black girl out of the library in tears. He wondered briefly if the boy knew what he did—that he wouldn't be interested in Walburga Black if she were the smartest, prettiest girl at Hogwarts. There was one fundamental component that would render her forever beneath his notice. It had been obvious to Albus for a while, noticeable even to Horace Slughorn once he'd spent some time with the boy. How long would it be before Tom Riddle, Jr. was ready to acknowledge just why he felt different from most of the other boys?

Albus sensed that would be a remarkable day in the castle.

* * *

Hearing the door to his office open and close, Slughorn looked up from the tests he'd been grading in surprise. "Riddle, my boy. I wasn't expecting you today. " He smiled. "What brings you to see me?"

Tom returned the smile and glided forward. "I just wanted to thank you again, sir. I never expected to be nominated for that award and to win was just—"  
"Nothing less than you deserved," Slughorn finished for him. "Your work in my class has been little short of brilliant and that essay on the possible uses of powdered mandrake in modern medicine was worth every bit of praise it received from the committee. You keep this up and I see a great number of awards in your future."

Tom blushed and nodded at the praise. "I have no doubt, under your guidance, I'll be able to achieve a great deal."

"But I'm not the only one guiding you, am I?"

Tom glanced at the Potions professor in surprise. His tone had changed, becoming slightly more serious. "Professor?"

"I just meant that you've spent quite a lot of time with Professor Dumbledore," Slughorn said. He began tapping his fingers on the stack of ungraded tests. "I don't believe I've seen him take such an interest in a student in all my years of teaching."

Tom began to frown. For a man who rarely noticed anything beyond the constant fawning and gifts he received from students current and former, he was remarkably observant about things that did not concern him.

Slughorn shrugged. "You are by far one of the more brilliant students I've encountered, but there must be something more to you that he finds fascinating."

It had escaped him before, but Tom knew the tone that now inundated Slughorn's words. Hard to believe, but he was jealous. Of what, Tom couldn't imagine. Unless the other man knew his time with the Transfiguration professor was voluntary while his meetings with the talkative Slughorn were more a means to an end—but even that was a minor technicality. Tom wasn't overly thrilled with the company of either man when he felt they were getting in the way more than helping. And childishly harping on who he spent more time with was hardly going to endear him to Professor Slughorn any more than lectures on proper conduct had made Dumbledore his companion of choice.

"I can't imagine what you mean," Tom said. Momentary surprise had flustered him, but he'd quickly gained control of his emotions. "We've spent some time talking about things—academic things—but I don't know what there is about me that is so different from other students."

"I don't mean something negative," Slughorn assured him. "Just that…he likes to pick the brains of those he finds most interesting. Tends to spend more time with them than anyone else. I've told Albus it's a rude habit, but he insists that it doesn't happen as often as I suspect."

"I'm sorry?" Tom frowned. "What's a rude habit?"

"Dumbledore—I'm sorry, boy. Don't you know? He is a very skilled Legilimens," Slughorn smiled and leaned back in his desk chair. "Over the years, he has developed the most awful habit of discerning people's thoughts at will. He's become so skilled, even those who are gifted at Occlumency can hardly tell when he is at it." He waved a hand in the air absently. "As I was saying, he must find your thoughts or something else rather fascinating if he's been keeping company with you as often as I suspect." Slughorn's eyes narrowed. "What do you the two of you talk about?"

"Just the usual, school and such," Tom repeated. "In first year he promised to tutor me as long as I maintain my grades."

"You've both kept up the bargain, I see." Slughorn smiled again, but there was no mirth in it. Just a thoughtful expression in his eyes Tom wished he could decipher as easily as the man's obvious jealousy. The Potion professor's eyes went back to the tests and he picked up his quill from the inkpot. "Let me know if you need any help with your homework assignment, Riddle."

With that, Tom knew he was dismissed. He waited for Slughorn to catch his eye again before he left. When nothing happened, he rose from the guest chair and headed for the library, his thoughts consumed with half-formed plans of how he would evade Dumbledore's probing.

* * *

That settled it. He wouldn't be able to spend time with him ever again. Tom frowned and paced in front of the window. _Not even safe sitting in class, am I?_ Avoiding him was no use and he knew it—Dumbledore probably knew it as well. _No wonder he had no objection to having me poring over books in his office twice a week. Makes me easier prey._

Tom considered the books on Legilimency he'd found in the Hogwarts library. Not only had Dumbledore been able to read every thought as he had them, he was able to pick up on past thoughts and emotions, fantasies, dreams—the staggering amount of information he could've plucked out of the thirteen-year-old's head was nauseating in its capacity. Of course, if Dumbledore really had read some of his darker thoughts, Tom felt sure he would've tried to draw some sort of confession out of him—for the pranks, the thoughts of his father, his ongoing search of the school.

But the lack of confrontation did not mean he was not aware of these things. The professor was intelligent, after all. He probably knew it would be better to wait until Tom had done something substantial before stepping in with well-timed advice or detention, as the situation would merit. As nothing truly dangerous had happened, he had simply remained uninvolved. Not that the supposition that he would not interfere unless necessary was comforting. It just meant Tom would have to be even more careful.

He would have to learn Occlumency. That was a priority. The instructions in one of the books had seemed simple enough. Tom thought he could master it before the weekend was over. That left him four days to avoid the Transfiguration professor in the Great Hall. With all of the minds available there, it would probably be more difficult for him to read—

"Tom, is there a reason you're out of your common room at this hour?"

Tom stopped pacing and turned to face Professor Dumbledore. The soft glow of moonlight through the window highlighted the small glints of silver in his auburn hair and beard, but the gloom of the night shielded his eyes. While Tom was apparently an open book, the professor was as hidden to him as the Chamber his ancestor had built, a creature behind his bright eyes holding both the wisdom of the ages and the means to destroy Tom's world if it were to ever be unleashed. Although wary of what could come, he felt he had to respect that kind of power. And learn to use it to his advantage.

Tom's eyes shot to the floor. He clutched the worn copy of _Practical Defensive Magic_ tightly to his side. "I wasn't aware that it had grown late, professor. I was just leaving the library, sir."

"Professor? Sir?" Dumbledore echoed. Tom heard a small chuckle from him. "You haven't called me by a title in months. Have I done something to offend you?"

"No," Tom said quickly, looking up. A frown tugged the corners of his mouth down. _Is he doing it now?_ "I apologize for missing curfew. It won't happen again." Before Dumbledore could respond, Tom turned on his heel and walked briskly to the closest set of stairs.

_No more_, Tom thought as he escaped. He would learn more than Dumbledore was willing to teach him, even if he had to spend every spare moment manipulating Slughorn. There would be no more opportunities for the Transfiguration professor to take advantage of him.


	5. Reliving the Past

_February 1941_

Slughorn was playing games with other people's lives. Albus knew it and he suspected Horace was aware of that fact. But there was little he could do about it, short of raising a fuss with Tom. And what would the purpose of that be, really? To admit that he looked forward to frequent knowledge of Tom's innermost thoughts as one might look forward to a sweet reward after a trying experience. Albus couldn't confess that any more than he could admit that his growing fascination was slowly becoming something he couldn't understand. That it could grow into something difficult to control. Why it might be dangerous in its strength. It had grown to where his thoughts were occasionally so consumed with the ideas of what could be, he was distracted to the point of embarrassing stares.

Stares which Horace apparently had noticed and found amusing, if his small smile down the High Table was any indication. Albus had acknowledged his friend's smirk with a nod, let his eyes drift back to the Slytherin table for a few seconds and then planted his gaze on the half-full plate in front of him. It might be wrong, the way he was drawn to the boy, but Albus hadn't done anything that would get him into trouble. So far. He wasn't sure he could trust himself to never act on his curiosity. He supposed Horace didn't either. Perhaps that was why he had thought to warn the boy his professor might have an unusual interest in him. As if he knew Albus's motives when the Transfiguration professor could hardly make sense of them himself.

That was the trouble with acquaintances like Slughorn. One might try to forget the past, move on from previous mistakes, but there was always someone who knew the demons one tried to bury and was willing to shed a light into the darkest corners of the past. Was Horace doing so to save Albus from himself? Was the possibility of indiscretion so great the other man feared for the safety and virtue of a student?

The idea in itself was ridiculous. Curiosity was merely a manifestation of attraction borne of knowledge sought about another person. Harmless in and of itself. Albus's own predilections aside, Tom was a child, displaying no more interest in Albus than he would a particularly complicated riddle. And Albus was not a predator. That was the rub, wasn't it? For all their talk about open minds and free thinking, the number of people who believed homosexuals capable of all sorts of deviousness was staggering. Even Horace, who often displayed an unhealthy interest in his students' everyday lives, had become so concerned about the growing friendship between professor and student, he'd warned Tom. As if a mere warning would stop someone who was determined to do something so unconscionable.

But the boy had stayed away. It had been two months since the last night they'd talked and Albus felt his absence as surely as he felt the censure and quiet amusement from his colleague down the table. Horace was laughing at his interest, delighting in causing an unnecessary rift in the harmless friendship. Gloating over his apparent triumph over the monster before he could claim his victim. Should he thank Horace for the concern that inspired him to remove the temptation? Or would Albus be better served telling Horace what he could do with his assumptions and warnings, more appropriate for the Potions master himself?

Perhaps it was true. Albus had overstepped his bounds and was too proud to see it. Or was Horace's paranoia merely masking itself as innocent concern? It might be more fitting to hold up a mirror to his old friend and suggest his worries were more reflection of his inner demons than a real worry for Tom's virtue. Much as he might like to think it was true, Albus couldn't be sure. That was where his concern truly lay. His possible inability to distinguish his own actions from the prejudice he recognized in others.

His thoughts were going in circles. That, perhaps, was Horace's true intent. To make Albus doubt himself in the face of an unvoiced accusation. As his eyes drifted first to the boy at the Slytherin table quietly sharing a laugh with his companions to the Potions master several seats away, Albus made a vow to himself. He would not let anyone's bias define or restrict him in any way. He'd had enough of that to last himself several lifetimes and the broken heart to prove it.

* * *

It wasn't the stares that bothered him. Over the weeks, he'd become used to those eyes tracing over him in public, silently questioning his change in behavior. What annoyed and frightened Tom was that another student had noticed. He'd laughed it off when Abraxas Malfoy had suggested their Transfiguration professor was staring as if he could see right through him. The blonde had no idea how close he'd come to the truth. Or what had been the truth before Tom had begun steeling himself against the unwelcome invasions. It had taken everything Tom had to not blush at the words and change the subject, hoping the others wouldn't think to further examine the professor's interest and his reaction.

It was cracking. His resistance. His so-called stoicism under Dumbledore's scrutiny. Tom could no more ignore his professor than he could forget why he'd panicked weeks before. There was still an underlying fear of discovery, of being judged by someone who could not understand why his thoughts progressed as they did. There was also the small lingering curiosity that forced him to wonder how Dumbledore could know everything going on in his mind and not only not be repulsed by what he found, but appeared to be frequently drawn to it. As he was finding himself drawn to the older man's company.

That pesky inquisitive nature Dumbledore had often teased him about was now focused on the professor. Tom felt helpless to control himself, so he stopped trying. When they'd finished dinner, he made his excuses to Abraxas and the others and snuck up the stairs until he found himself in the second floor hall. It was silent, but there was still something in the air, a tension that shifted around him as he stepped closer to the office door where he knew the Transfiguration professor was poring over the Evening Prophet and sipping a cup of hot chocolate.

Tom stopped outside the office and paused, his hand on the doorknob. What was stopping him? Certainly not the supposition that he would be unwelcome. As much as he'd been obsessing over their parting company, he knew the professor had wondered at and fought against his absence. Tom wondered briefly if either of them would be honest about how comfortable they felt together and why. For his own part, why was still in question, but he felt certain the answer lay beyond the door.

Dumbledore didn't move from his desk as Tom opened the door, but the boy felt the atmosphere in the room change almost imperceptibly. A tension hung between them like an invisible cloud, palpable now that they were alone for the first time in weeks. Dumbledore looked up and locked gazes with the boy across his office, observing as the student entered and closed the door behind himself. He watched in silence as Tom crossed the room and sat in his guest chair. A small, uncertain smile tilted his lips at the corner before he straightened his expression. His bright blue eyes twinkled in the dim firelight.

"We haven't spoken in a while," Tom said.

Dumbledore nodded. He dropped his newspaper to the desk and leaned back, crossing his arms over his thin chest. His half-moon glasses slid to the edge of his nose. "I assumed you had found a better use for your time," he said slowly. "Outgrown my influence."

Tom felt his lips pull into a smile, in spite of a half-hearted promise to himself to remain stoic. "I'm not sure I've achieved that just yet. I felt I had to…explore a few things on my own. You understand."

"Mm." Dumbledore stared at the fourteen-year-old, his bright blue eyes searching.

Tom felt the light but familiar pushing sensation just behind his eyes. _No_, he thought just before pushing back. Dumbledore's eyes widened briefly in surprise before a light smile touched his lips.

"Do you have any secrets, Tom?"

"Not nearly as many as you, Professor," he responded.

To Tom's surprise, this comment prompted a wider smile from his professor. Albus leaned forward. "I suppose we both have our reasons."

"Neither of which need to be stated, I'm sure."

An awkward silence settled between them. Their eyes met and locked across the desk. Tom pulled his eyes away quickly, letting his gaze drop to the paper that had been haphazardly dropped upon his entrance.

"Another wizard on trial for breaking the Statute of Secrecy?" Tom asked, scanning the front page of the Prophet. He frowned as he read through the beginning of the article. "Isn't that the third time this year?" Tom rolled his eyes and sat back, crossing his arms. "It would make more sense to do away with it altogether rather than punish us for what comes naturally."

"And what would that be, Tom?" Dumbledore drawled. His voice was tinged with quiet amusement. "What comes naturally?"

The boy looked up; his dark brows arched lightly in surprise. "Dominance, of course. We are superior to Muggles in every way and yet we live in fear of them knowing of our power." He reached forward and tapped the newspaper. "That is not the natural order of things."

Albus chuckled and leaned back in his chair. He folded his hands loosely over his abdomen. The deep purple robes crinkled. "And what, precisely, is the natural order in your mind?"

Tom smiled. Deep in his stomach he felt the familiar rise of excitement that accompanied a challenge. The twinkle in Dumbledore's eyes spurred him on. "What would be more natural is for those with the power to wield it. Those who are beneath us should live as such." He paused and rolled his eyes to the left as he considered. "That is not to say they should be our servants. Just that we should not fear them any more than they us."

His voice rose as he became excited. "Muggles starve and hurt each other when they should be able to live in an ordered society. We could give them that. We could show them so much more than their own meager existence. We could teach them how to run their lives, how to best function without magic. We could fix their governments, their prisons, their entire way of living. We could control everything," Tom said in a suddenly softer voice. "We could be their overlords. Protective but still powerful. They need us," he finished in a breathless rush.

It took several moments for his eyes to focus across the desk again, but when he did, Tom was startled. Albus Dumbledore was pale and shaking, his formerly relaxed frame now rigid with tension.

"Is something the matter?" Tom asked.

Dumbledore jerked, his hand going towards the top drawer of his desk. "No," he said after a moment. He drew his hand back and placed it on top of the desk. "I just…I no longer feel well. Perhaps we could talk at another time." Before Tom could respond, he turned his chair away from the desk and faced the window, losing himself in the view of the dark courtyard until the student left his office.

_It has all become too much_, Albus thought. He closed his eyes and felt a wave of dizziness overtake him. He took a deep breath to steady himself. No amount of self-delusion was going to erase what he'd just witnessed, the trick of sound and eye that had just brought him back more years than he cared to count, to the summer he'd spent with Gellert Grindelwald.

It was that faraway expression that had been the final piece of the disturbing glamour. Gellert had always lost himself to his emotions when he carried on about "a new world order" and "wizard supremacy." Albus imagined that he might have taken on that same glaze-eyed expression when listening to the young wizard speak—or going on about his own great ideas for changing the world.

They had both been too naïve to realize the improbability of their ideas, too idealistic to listen to anyone who would say otherwise and too disillusioned by their own fantasies to think of any of the consequences that many wise men before them had foreseen. When Albus had looked into the dark eyes, he'd seen in Tom what he'd once seen in the mirror—the foolish, grandiose plans of youth and a building ego that could grow to ignore all reason. Ultimately, that had been his weakness and resulted in the loss of two people he'd loved. Albus also saw the potential for great change in the determined young man. Dark tendencies aside, there was no doubt Tom Riddle, Jr. had the temerity to go after exactly what he wanted. It was all there in his mind, the potential to change the world, whatever the consequences.

Dumbledore's hand jerked towards the top drawer of his desk as it had before he'd ordered Tom out; his fingers glanced over the handle. With a small sigh, he pulled it open and removed a bottle of firewhiskey. He would have that drink, after all.


End file.
